


Hard to swallow

by winter_angst



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Hallucinations, Horror, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Writer Jack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:41:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26919001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter_angst/pseuds/winter_angst
Summary: Jack Rollins, an author, tries to find solace in a small Vermont town. Instead he finds Brock Rumlow.
Relationships: Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Comments: 10
Kudos: 12
Collections: Shipoween 2020 - The Halloween Ship Exchange!





	Hard to swallow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [quillingyousoftly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quillingyousoftly/gifts).



> beta'd by the kind Kalika999

Jack had been driving for so long that the scenery began to blur together into nothing. The excitement of being around trees instead of skyscrapers was forgotten as he got more and more weary of the trip. 

It was a long journey on purpose, Jack needed space. He needed to disconnect after the disastrous last few weeks. But no, he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about that. His agent told him to just stay low until things blew over. So that was why he was in the middle of Vermont, a tiny state bordering New York. Jack had wanted to head to Albany but Natasha insisted that wasn’t far enough. He needed to go somewhere he wouldn’t be noticed. So they selected Vermont, a state too wrapped up in itself to bother much with city drama. 

Natasha had forbidden him from going to any well known towns, instead searching for the tiniest town far off the map. So here he was, on his way to Maidstone that boasted a measly population of 208. Well, 209 when he got there. Nat had selected it because it was a city that didn’t even have a paved road. It was safe to assume that folks okay with driving on dirt primarily wouldn’t be too connected to the internet. In fact Jack wasn’t so certain there was any internet there. But it was okay, he reminded himself. He should be disconnecting from what was happening at home as well; he’d put in too much time worrying about things now out of control. 

It wasn't his fault. It was just… 

No. No, Jack wasn’t supposed to be thinking about it. Cows in pastures lined each side of him and the smell of manure seeped through his AC. Jack drew his face in disgust. How did people live like this? His GPS had been quiet for a bit so he glanced down at it only to see a swirling circle as it tried to connect. His eyes flicked to the corner of the screen and swore viciously. No service. Of course there was no service. Why would there be in the middle of fucking nowhere. He drove a bit longer, slow, trying to see if he could get a bar or two. He had no luck so he sped up in search of a store where he could get some directions. Assuming that anyone knew the way to a place as small as Maidstone. 

He finally rolled up to what he thought was a gas station. It had old fashion pumps and the building was so shabby it looked like it could fall apart at the slightest nudge. There was even an old lady rocking back and forth in an aging rocking chair and a sleepy hound dog laying at her feet. A rusty out red truck that Jack doubted was road legal (maybe in Vermont it was, who the fuck knows) sat in front of an attached garage. 

He came to a stop and the storm door opened just as a little boy with dirty clothes peered out at him before retreating back into the house when the old lady croaked something Jack couldn’t hear. Soon after an older man stepped out from around the truck, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. 

“Cann’a help ya, mister?” 

“Uh, yeah, I’m looking for directions.” 

The man nodded and approached him. “Think I can help ya there pal. Where’ya headin’?” 

“Maidstone.” 

“Maidstone? What’ya lookin’ to do out there?” the man asked, looking bewildered. “Those roads gonna scratch up that there car.” 

“It’s a rental.” 

“Ya sure you wanna go up there?” he asked again.

“Positive. My Airbnb is there.” Jack wasn’t sure he needed to justify himself to strangers but he needed their help so he played along. “If you could give me some directions I’d appreciate it.” 

“Alright, mister. Yer here in Stannard, here. Yer gonna want to get on US-5 N, headin’ towards Lyndon -- ya, can’t miss it, the college’s that way, signs all over the place -- ” 

Jack nodded along making notes on his phone as the man who smelled of diesel listed off all the landmarks. He got to Maidstone and hesitated a bit before telling him where the town hall was where Jack would be picking up his key. 

“Ya gonna need anything for the ride?” he asked, clearly hopeful.

Jack nodded his head. “Of course,” he said. 

The steps creaked under his feet as he went inside to grab a bottle of water from the cooler. The kid peeked at him from around the aisle and Jack waved only to watch him dash from the store. Jack shrugged and waited for the guy to ring him up and headed out. A hand grabbed his wrist and Jack turned, ripping his hand away. 

“In the well they dwell.” she said, blue eyes burning into his. 

There was something about the way she looked at him that made him nervous. The dog whined as if the words had bothered him as well. 

“Ma,” the guy said, opening the screen door. “Don’t mind her, mister. Gettin’ on in age, y’see.” 

Jack nodded jerkily and made his way quickly towards the car. The old woman went back to rocking, staring off at nothing. The feeling of unease that clung to him slowly faded with the distance put between them. Jack knew that age affected people’s minds and what she’d said was pure nonsense but she had looked so lucid when she said it, like it was a warning. Like she knew something he didn’t, but that was crazy. She’d simply rhymed two words together. So Jack shrugged it off and put his navigational skills to the test. By the time he made it to Maidstone the entire experience was forgotten. 

The Airbnb had been incredibly cheap which wasn’t something Jack had been worried about but he liked to save money as much as the next person. The gas station guy hadn’t lied about the dirt roads. Thank god it was a rental. His C-Class would have suffered greatly and so would have Jack. But he wasn’t trying to stick out here, although he didn’t think that there was much he could do about that. He wasn’t from around here, he wasn’t exactly aware of their culture (it was considered a culture right? Maybe that was the wrong word.). Natasha hadn’t warned him properly, Jack decided. It was easy to blame her for things because he had too much blame on himself and he couldn’t handle it. 

He arrived at the townhall, a long square building with a ramp running up to it on the left. The siding was painted somewhere between brown and beige. Perhaps it had been white at some point but the elements tinged in an unappealing color. Unpainted wooden steps led up to the door. The parking lot was nearly empty, save for a junky old Jeep. He parked beside it and got out, shoving his useless phone into his pocket as he walked up the steps. He didn’t get a chance to knock before a squat woman wearing a black cardigan over her too pink shirt pulled open the door that squealed on its hinges. 

“You must be Jack! I’m Jean, come in, come in, I’ll get you your keys.” 

Jack followed her inside the town hall which looked fresh out of the 1950s, wood unfinished, wires stapled to the door and exposed. He was fairly certain that it would be a fire hazard in New York but maybe things were different here. Gun toting Vermonters probably had more laxed regulations in general. She rummaged behind a desk for a moment, opening a drawer, frowning, and opening another. Jack was starting to get nervous when he heard a jingle. 

“Ah-ha! Annie sometimes moves things on the days she works.” She smiled in triumph and passed the key to Jack. “Do you need directions?” 

Jack gratefully accepted it and before long he was rumbling along a pothole covered road. He was glad that he’d have the foresight to get a SUV. These roads would have killed his car and there wasn’t a single car he met on the drive. It was just the rumble of the road beneath his tires and the trees, a blur of cedars, white birches and beeches. If Jack was the kind of guy who enjoyed sightseeing he would have found it serene, peaceful and beautiful; especially with the wide open blue sky and warm rays cutting through the early October chill. But Jack just wanted to get there and crack open one of the several bottles of whiskey he’d brought along with him. He would have to go out for groceries so his plans would be delayed but he wanted to be unpacked before he went back out. He came around a sharp bend and spotted the lightning struck tree that stood tall and dead, turning onto the driveway beside it. 

Jack thought it was an unsightly landmark to have around an Airbnb because he suddenly found himself worrying about the state of the house. The driveway was more of a road, almost a mile of twists and turns under the shadow of trees that must have stood for centuries with the way they stretched skywards, boughs shadowing the drive, as though the trees were reaching towards each other. Half of the leaves were gone and the bare branches were a bit unsettling but the bright lively colors in other areas took the edge off. 

Finally the drive opened up the house he’d seen in the photos. He was blown away again at how cheap it had been, the Victorian house stood there like it had come from that era. It wasn’t as nice as it looked in the photos, clearly taken before it was left alone and empty. The Airbnb ad hadn’t said when the home was built, it just said that it was a beautiful, private home with one master bedroom, five plain bedrooms, eight bathrooms, a U-shaped kitchen, a dining room and plenty of other rooms that Jack had no reason to go into. He wasn’t sure why he selected it, feeling a bit intimidated as he cut off the engine. It had been a joke at first but Natasha had agreed it was a good place to lay low and Jack figured the more space he had the more inspiration he could find.

It was attractive in that sense, gothic and a little bit depressing. It drew emotion, it made you think. It was the perfect place for him to start a new novel, a fresh idea. He was breaking free of chronicling Special Agent Allan Graff. He had other talents, he could write more than assassinations and heists and all the other generic spy tropes. In fact he wasn’t sure why he had waited so long. 

Natasha feared him dropping off the New York Times Best Sellers but Jack was growing tired of it. Plus, it was a good distraction. Something to pick at when trying to forget about… No, no he wasn’t going to think about it. He couldn’t. Jack grabbed his suitcase, a TUMI that had no right to be pulled through the dirt. But he wanted to fuse himself into the location. To the property. To the house. To being away from the chaos left behind.

The house’s walls were darkened from age and exposure. Morning glories snaked between the railings of the veranda and around two thick pillars that stood guard on each side of the stone steps. The door was wooden, aged but sturdy and Jack paused a moment staring at the hand carved details before he inserted the key. It turned easy — Jack had expected it to jam a bit, seeing its shape. 

The door swung open to the hall, to his left was the archway to the parlor.

Jack pulled his suitcase past a split staircase and tilted his head up at the landing. It had a single side table with a dusty looking vase. He continued on opening a door on his right. It was the bedroom from the ad, just with added dust and a general lack of care. Jack couldn’t find it in himself to be annoyed; he’d planned ahead and brought his own bedding anyway. There was an attached bathroom with a closet off it. 

Jack left his suitcase and meandered through the house. The parlor was something out of an old movie, complete with a record player and horrendously ugly flower printed furniture. The TV was the only thing shattering the age-old decor. A massive flatscreen mounted over a fireplace, though the mantle had an array of ceramic angels placed here and there. 

The kitchen was bigger than it had looked in the photos, but it was stocked with the basics (oil, general spices, flour and sugar) which were up to date. Clearly someone had come to the property recently. Beyond that the pantry was empty. Between the kitchen and the pantry was a door and steps that led to the side yard. Through the window Jack could see it was a bit overgrown but not enough to be an eye-sore. Beyond the kitchen was a shed of sorts, lawn equipment hung one the walls above a long tool bench. To the left of the kitchen was a small closet with a handing light and steps leading down to the basment where Jack had no fucking business going — he’d seen enough horror movies to know that only idiots went there.

Jack went upstairs, looking over the banister at the hall below before he started to explore. He poked into various chambers, sneezed a few times and found far too many closets. The end of the hall was a sliding door onto a balcony looking over the backyard. The woods fringed the end of the yard, green ash and Norway spruce. 

The yard hosted two things: a tumbledown shed and a bored well, a small roof above it, a rusty looking pail sitting on the masonry around it. He turned around and headed back down the stairs, the echoing footsteps were a little creepy and more than a little depressing. The silence was almost oppressing, his ears used to the sound of the city, of traffic and ruckus from this or that. But that wasn’t going to happen here in the sleepy town of Maidstone. He didn’t think it happened anywhere in this tiny state. 

Jack decided to unpack and once done, he placed his laptop on the dining room table. The MacBook looked wildly out of place on the rough wood, like it was encroaching on the house itself. Jack set a bottle of whiskey on the table and wandered off to find a cup. He couldn’t leave until things were set up for his return just right. He ran the dusty cup under the tap, borrowing some off-label dishsoap and put it neatly in its place to the left of the laptop, parallel to the bottle of whiskey. His notepad and his Benu pen were sitting side by side when he finally took a step back. He had to keep order in his writing space. Order on the table, order in writing. His notepad was open to his last notes so he knew exactly where to pick up. 

With that done he turned to his next task. 

He had to drive to New Hampshire to get groceries as there wasn’t a single store in Maidstone. It was a trip drive to Groveton and North Country Store Shop & Save. It was small, carrying brands Jack had never heard of. There was a meat counter however. Jack perused it a moment before a small lady with a shabby woolen overcoat bumped into him. He shifted away and the old woman laid a hand on him. 

“Oh dear, I’m getting so clumsy at my age.” She blinked up at him; her glasses were thick, making her eyes comically large. “Oh, I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Helena. You’re not from around here, are you now? How long are you staying?”

Jack was taken off guard. “Uh, yeah I’m just… A few weeks, I think. At most a month.” 

“Here in Groveton?” 

“Uh, Maidstone. Vermont. “

She nodded her head. She had snowy white hair pinned up neatly into a bob. “A fine, fine town. A bit small for your liking, I’m sure.” 

It was almost eerie how she knew. “It’ll take some adjustment.” 

“Well I hope to be seeing you again soon… Forgive me dear, did you tell me your name?” 

Jack wasn’t typically privy to handing out his personal information but a first name never hurt. “Jack.” 

“Jack! My first husband’s name was Jack, God bless him. He was an engineer, my Jack.”

Jack was startled. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did he pass?” 

She began to laugh which startled him. “Oh, no, no. I believe he’s in Florida with his blond haired whore.” Jack almost gaped. “But you, you seem like a good Jack, don’t you?” 

“I-I try to be.” 

She patted his arm and looked over the counter. “You be nice to this one, Phillip.” 

“I promise to be,” the butcher agreed. 

He was bald with a bushy brown mustache and friendly eyes. His apron was covered in blood but Jack suspected that went along with the job. Jack picked out a T-bone and went through the rest of his list without run-ins with any more Helena-type folks. He got a few stares, reminding him that he was invading the territory of a town where everyone knew everyone. Or at least a store where the locals could pinpoint a newbie a mile away. Either or he was glad to put his groceries on the conveyor belt and grabbed a Coke for the ride. The cashier was young, nose too big, with a few freckles dotting his face. He didn’t say a word, just watched 

Jack set the items down and scanned the register as it passed by. Jack was beginning to think he was mute before he looked at him and said, “Paper bags are ten cents.” 

“I’d prefer plastic actually.”

“Alright.”

He bagged his things, shooting inquisitive looks at Jack. He wondered if the cashier recognized his face from the back cover of the books but Jack couldn’t be certain. The upper northeast sure had a way of welcoming strangers. Had this happened at one of the markets in New York he wouldn't have thought anything of it. But, save for Helena, it felt more like no one trusted him. 

He went back home, shrugging off the uncomfortable shopping expedition. He had enough food for a few weeks so he didn’t have to venture beyond the property for a while. He didn’t mind it in the slightest, time away would give him some creative freedom. Hopefully. Jack poured himself a glass of whiskey, his onyx stones stacked neatly in the lowball. He splashed the amber liquid over the stones, Jameson Irish as always. It was the whiskey he drank since he was fifteen years old and started to sneak it from his father’s liquor cabinet. He knew of course but he never said a word. Jack missed him every day. So, in a way, the whiskey was a homage to him. 

Jack got notes down, basic character information, past events that he would reference later on. Skills, vices, fear, lists of their bad habits (Jack liked to write the antihero, the one who readers would have easily seen as a bad guy had it been from any other perspective) and a love interest that Jack scratched out three times. Women were difficult to write as a man. Women existed in Allan Graff books as a sultry powerful image of feminism that, in the end, turned into someone for Graff to fuck before she said a goodbye and went back to espionage. It felt a little one dimensional but no one reads the Graff series for deeper meaning. 

But this was going to be different. He wasn’t going to hold himself to the 350 page maximum because Natasha worried it would drive away his fan base by being too lengthy. This wasn’t for his established fanbase. This was for a new one. Jack checked his email knowing one would be sitting there from Natasha before realizing he hadn’t connected to the wifi. He pulled up the information from his email off his phone to find the one bar he’d had earlier had vanished along with the daylight. Jack swore, drained his drink, and got fumbled with his key fob as he unlocked his car and climbed in. His headlights blinded him momentarily and he turned around, starting down the long snaking drive. Jack slammed on his breaks as a lifted rig with liquid collection tanks on the flatbed came out of nowhere. The SUV skid on the dirt and the asshole in the truck honked. Jack caught his breath, fear turning to anger because the guy had been going way faster than he was supposed to. 

He reached for his phone which had tumbled down to the floor. A single bar was back. Jack pulled up the information, screen shotted it, and made a very tight U-turn hoping no one else would come tearing down the road. He tried to see it as a positive -- other people did live here. He parked the car, shaking his head, and went into the house. He connected the wifi, the connection decent, and returned Natasha’s email assuring her that he was staying off social media, and was as far off map as possible in the twenty first century. He sat back in his chair afterwards, a strange wave of loneliness hitting him. It was times like this he wished he had a cat. He couldn’t focus on his notes and setting a scene seemed too laborious so he grabbed a book and retired upstairs. He left the kitchen light on so it illuminated the hallway a bit. It wasn’t that Jack was afraid of the dark, but it was a strange house and he didn’t want to get disoriented in the middle of the night. 

Jack poured himself a glass of whiskey and brought it to the bedroom. His sheets were already on although he didn’t remember doing it before he left. Or maybe he had. He’d had a few drinks and time had a tendency to blur together a bit. Middlemarch was keeping him company when he dozed off, lamp light still on. 

** ** ** **

He was standing in the middle of the backyard, glass in hand, confused. All around him he heard his name. Some close, like they were whispering it and some in the distance. He turned in circles, dumb with confusion and fear. He was surrounded yet he was alone. The voices didn’t have a male or female tone to them. Jack tried to run but the voices followed, faster than him, shouting in front of him until he stumbled backwards. 

The moon was a mere sliver, highlighting nothing more than outlines so there was plenty of space for shadows to tuck themselves out of the sight. The voice grew loud, so unbearably loud that he put his hand over his ears, dropping his cup to the ground beside him. He took drunken strides backwards, looking around wildly. He nearly toppled over when the back of his legs bumped the stone masonry of the well. The voices cut out, the silence even more unnerving as he looked around wildly for a culprit, a reason. Then the voice drifted up from behind him. 

“Jack…” it was male, but soothing, as if he was an old friend of his. 

He turned around and stared down at the black recesses of the well. He leaned forwards, trying to see more clearly when the sound of a gunshot boomed behind him from the house. Jack turned around and -- 

He sat up in a cold sweat, gasping. The dream… It slipped through fingers like water through a sieve and he couldn’t recall a single detail. He knew it had been unnerving, that he was afraid for some reason but he couldn’t recall the dream for the life of him. So poured himself some Jameson Irish and let it rock him to sleep.

** ** ** **

Jack woke up from light streaming in from the window. He rolled over a grunt and a young man grinned at him. “Good morning, handsome.” 

Jack reeled back falling to the floor. The guy sat up, toothy grin still in place. “Middlemarch?” he said picking up the book. He tossed it back onto the bed. “Snore fest. Hey, how about breakfast?” 

“I…” Jack's heart was hammering. He was under the impression that rural shitholes like this were crime free. Now he had a home invader -- maybe even a murderer -- in his Airbnb. “What do you want from me?” 

“Uh, well first of all stop lookin’ at me like I’m gonna kill you.” 

“You’re aren’t?” Jack asked, voice a bit shakier than he liked to admit. 

“If I wanted to do that, why would I be sitting here? Plus, it’d be such a waste to kill you.” 

“How did you get in here?” Jack demanded, fear fading into anger. “I will call the police.” 

“No you won’t. Reception is shit. Besides, I’m not hurting you am I?” the kid pouted at him. “I make a mean breakfast though.” 

“You broke in to make me breakfast?” 

“First of all, the door was unlocked so technically I just invited myself in. But I’m making up for it with one hell of a breakfast. C’mon.” 

He hopped off the bed and started towards the door. He paused in the doorway and looked over his shoulder. “My name is Brock, Jack. In case you were curious.” 

Jack wasn’t sure he’d even told him his name. Jack got to his feet, bewildered and a bit hung over. He hurried after him wondering if his laptop had been stolen. But it sat there. His notepad had been moved, however. “Did you read through my things?”

“It was just sitting there,” Brock called from the kitchen. “Just kinda glanced at it.” 

“You left it on a different page,” Jack accused. “Don’t you think walking into someone’s home is invasive as it is without you reading through private notes?” 

“If it’s any reconciliation, I didn’t realise walking in would be as big of deal as you made it so… In my book, the notes were my first and only invasion of privacy.” 

“Don’t you have parents wondering where you are?” 

“I hope so. I’m nineteen by the way.” 

“Maybe you should go visit them.” 

“Wish I could,” Brock said. “The groundskeeper gets mad when I try to dig down to their coffins.” 

Jack was even more annoyed at him because now he felt guilty. “I’m sorry to hear that.” 

“I don’t mind. I never met them. Mom liked the big H and my dad was raging alcoholic -- or so my foster mom told me. But enough about me, how about you? You're a writer.” 

“I am.”

“Your face looks familiar but I can’t place it.” 

Jack didn’t want to help him place it either. He had a feeling rumors travelled quickly in a place like this. “I’ve written a few things -- hey, I never said I wanted you to cook.”

“You didn’t say no so I assumed it was one of those old man grumpy ‘I guess but I won’t like it’ kinda thing.” 

“I’m not an old man. I’m thirty five.” 

“Which is almost forty and forty in almost fifty and fifty is pretty much dead.” 

“You don’t die in your fifties.” 

“My parents did. I think. Honestly I don’t know if it’s really their grave, it just says Rumlow.” 

Jack pinched the bridge of his nose. Never in his life had he had anything remotely like this happen. There was no logical response besides demanding he leave but Jack suspected that would do little but make the mouthy kid talk in circles. He didn’t seem interested in stealing from him and had that been his intention he would have done so sooner. Jack went into the kitchen, to ensure he wasn’t going to be poisoned. The kid had cracked eggs into a pan with some butter. Bacon sizzled in the other and he seemed well versed in cooking. Breakfast at least. 

“Are you from around here?” 

“Mmhm.” 

“Where?” 

“That is private information, Mr. Rollins.” 

“How do you know my name?” 

“I’m a psychic.” 

Jack hesitated a moment wondering if that was possible but Brock laughed at him. 

“Stop taking things so seriously, ugh. This is why I call you old.” 

Jack’s jaw ticked. “Typically uninvited guests aren’t rude. They’re grateful the police weren’t called.” 

“That’s something an old man would say.” Brock replied. “Toast the bread.” 

Jack did so -- not because Brock had told him but because he wanted to. The sound of frying food filled the air a moment before Brock said, “Romance huh?” 

“What?” 

“The book you’re working on. It’s a romance.” 

“I’m hoping so,” Jack admitted. “It’s… It’s slow going. It’s a little out of my comfort zone.” 

“I think all you need is some strapping, heroic guy and a girl who’s gorgeous but thinks she’s ugly so she’s so taken when Mr. Abs looks her away. Then someone kidnaps her or, better yet, him, to please all the new age feminists finally growing tired of the damsel angle. And then of course three to four sex scenes with a million different things to call a penis and horrendous terms for lady bits.” 

Jack sucked on his teeth, binning his current idea. Great. 

“But I like your Josh Ryder. I mean the name a bit...cliche but he sounds like an asshole and I like assholes.” 

Jack scoffed out a laugh as he transferred bacon onto a plate while the kid flipped the eggs. “I didn’t know you were such a literary expert.” 

“Nope,” Brock popped the ‘p’. “I’m just a critic like everyone else these days.” 

Ain’t that the truth, Jack through bitterly. “So what do you suggest?” 

“Brock Rumlow, melting hearts all over the world. But not women’s hearts. Not really my thing.” 

Jack rolled his eyes. “Brock Rumlow huh? Doesn’t have a good ring to it.” 

Brock turned in faux outrage. “How dare you insult my perfect name. The disrespect, honestly.” 

“As disrespectful -- and weird, might I add -- as it is to walk into someone’s home and   
?”

“Not your house, you’re just renting,” Brock replied. “And the door was open.” 

“Jesus Christ. What if I had been a killer? Or a rapist? Or...or Buffalo Bill?” 

“Well you’re not any of those and, if it’s comfort to you, I don’t know who the last one is.” 

“Silence of the Lambs?” Brock stared at him and Jack sighed in exasperation. “Kids these days.”

Jack grimaced at his own choice of words and Brock opened his mouth to, undoubtedly, proclaim that he was an old man. 

“Shut it and butter the toast.” 

“Aye Captain.” 

Jack dished the food and told himself that after breakfast he was going to kindly but firmly ask the kid to make himself scarce; he had writing to do as well trying to come up with a less cliche plot. Jack set aside the laptop and poured Brock a normal glass of orange juice and his own with a splash of vodka. Brock noticed but Jack didn’t care; this was a vacation as much as it was work. Vacations called for morning drinks. They settled at the table and Brock didn’t wait a moment before he began to talk once more. Jack was starting to suspect it was his sole skill. That and breaking and entering. 

“So this is a huge place huh?” Brock said. 

“It is.” 

“One hell of a deal if you ask me.”

“Seems like it.” 

“So you wear glasses huh?” 

“When I’m reading -- don’t you dare call me old. A lot of people need them.” 

“You said it, not me.” Brock said coyly with a sip of his juice. “So is it your first time here?”

“The house or the state?”

“Well I know you haven’t been here before,” Brock said with an eye roll. 

“Oh so you make it a habit to encroach on everyone who stays here?” 

“Well of course. “You’re not that special. Although so far I think you’re my favorite.” 

“Am I supposed to be flattered?” 

“It’s the polite thing to do,” Brock said, nibbling on his bread.

Jack rolled his eyes, wiping up egg yolk with a piece of his toast. “So how far do you live from here?”

“Not far. Hey, did you know this place sits on ten acres? There’s a hiking trail I could show you. Lots of wildlife and shit you don’t see out in the city. Also a pond. You’re allowed to hunt and fish on the property but you don’t really strike me as a hunter.” 

“Then I strike you properly.” 

“What if we go after breakfast?” 

“Listen, kid, it’s been nice getting to know you but I’m here to write and I can’t really do that when I’m entertaining.” 

Brock’s bottom lip pushed out. “Well can I do it alone?” he asked. 

Jack wanted to say no but what was the harm really? Jack would be inside where it was quiet and peaceful. “Knock yourself out, kid.” 

“I’m not a kid you know,” Brock said. “I’m nineteen, remember?” 

“Still a kid to me.” 

“Because you’re old.” 

“On second thought I’m not so sure about that hiking trail…”

“Fine, fine,” Brock cut in. “you’re not old, you're...physically mature.” 

Jack figured that was the best he was going to get so he left there. Brock volunteered to do the dishes and Jack didn’t protest. He was examining his notes when he came back out. Jack took a good look at him this time, no longer clouded with exhaustion. He had on worn jeans and ratty sneakers. He wore a black tee and had the sort of build that would one day mature to be muscular. His hair was styled up into a quiff and he had a defined jawline even at his age. 

“I guess I’ll go now,” he said. “On my own. Hoping no bears or wolves or coydogs try to kill me.” 

“Coydogs?” 

“That’s what I said. You don’t know what those are? And you call yourself a writer… They’re coyote dog hybrids.” 

“Never had a need to write about them,” Jack said, a bit annoyed. “They don’t have them in New York City so forgive me.” 

Brock either did not understand the bitterness or he didn’t care because he replied with a, “I forgive you.” 

He hung around a bit, leaning against the wall and asking him questions about the city and trying to pry a bit into his life. Jack got himself situated to write and the kid was nothing short of a shadow, continuing to pepper him for answers. “Brock,” he said when he finally took a breath. “I have to work now.” 

Brock perked a bit. “Okay. Well I see you later then I guess.” 

“Or not.” 

“If I don’t show up it’s because I wasn’t really feeling it,” Brock said, starting towards the door. “Good luck with your writing, Jack.” 

“Thanks.” 

His morning was spent researching what setting he wanted and making notes on the characters. It wasn’t easy to write a heterosexual couple, not when the only thing he could base it on was an eighth grade dance with a girl named Cindy who spent the entire time with her friends while Jack sipped punch his own friends waiting for it to end. It was his first and last dance and his first and last experience with women. He’d had a few fleeting romances with a handful of men but none had lasted. It was said those who suffered toil and heartbreak had the best creativity boosts. Jack wasn’t sure if that was his case or not. He wrote his Graff novels without being heartbroken or depressed. The only fuel he needed came in a bottle. 

He retrieved his whiskey stones and splashed in Jameson Irish in, amber inspiration, and decided on Nevada. It was the state with the highest rate of marriage and low divorce rate. He was also struck with the idea of brothels. The beautiful couple was cliched. He wanted his characters to have flaws. It would make his characters more relatable, easier to immerse themselves in because it was easy to picture themselves there. 

His main character, Gina platinum blond curls, rarely ever contained was a working woman in Storey County. The love interest was Timothy, a mousey man with no experience with women. Gina takes him, Timothy falls in love and then… 

And then. Jack sat back, taking a drink. Who knew what. Jack didn’t. 

He stood up, poured himself a refill and decided to take a look around the property. The fresh air felt nice though he had to retreat to pull on a Columbia fleece. He walked around the L shaped porch. Stairs led to the side yard and he looked around. The sky above him was swirling faded blue and light gray, a color Jack couldn’t quite place. He let his focus wander to the horse chestnuts and chokeberries. He could hear birds tittering around him but he couldn’t see any. He strolled along the tree lines. The tall ones didn’t let much light through so it was dark and uninviting. He stopped into the back yard and a cold breeze had him shuddering. He took a gulp of whiskey to warm himself back up. 

He headed to the well. 

Jack peered over it. It yawned open. It was too dark to judge its depths. The pail sat there innocently, begging him to try and play out the olden days. The rope was aged and tinged brown but it looked solid enough. He had it in hand when a hand landed on his shoulders. Jack whirled around with a shout and Brock stood there, head cocked. 

“I was calling your name. You didn’t hear me?”

“Clearly not,” Jack snapped trying to calm his racing pulse. “I thought you were hiking.” 

“Uh, it’s raining.” 

“It’s not rain...ing.” Jack was suddenly aware of the rain pelting down. His shoulders were near sodden and his hairs plastered to his forehead. How the fuck had he not realized it downpouring? 

“You sure you’re okay? You were standing there for a while.” 

Was he? It had been a few minutes, less than that even. Jack looked down at his drink. It was almost full from all the rain. He dumped it out feeling a bit numb and more than a bit unsettled. 

“Let’s get out of the rain,” he said because that made the most sense of course.

“Good idea.” 

Brock started across and Jack trailed along until he heard his name. He turned but there was no one there. Jack shrugged it off following Brock inside. He adjusted the thermostat and, after a moment of consideration grabbed a tee and some sweatpants for him to change into. When they were both dry Brock seated himself at the table and tugged his notepad toward himself. Jack caught it and pulled it back toward himself. 

“Is that anyway to treat a guest?” Brock demanded. 

“You’re not a guest.” 

“Well that’s just rude. So how’s the writing going?” 

“It’s not.” 

“Oof, the thing authors hate the most.” 

“And you know this how?”

“You looked pretty sad when you said ‘it’s not’.” Brock grinned. “I might not get the writer stuff but I think I can read you pretty well.” 

“You don’t know me.” 

“That’s what makes it so impressive.” Brock looked around. “So your plans are to sit here and write huh?” 

“It’s why I’m here,” Jack lied -- no, it wasn’t a lie. It was a partial truth. “What about you? Don’t you have school or a job?” 

“Neither at the moment.” 

Of course not, why else would be there? Speaking of which, “Why did you come here anyway?” 

“To see the new rentee. See if he scored on the hotness meter.” 

Jack knew better to ask. He really, really did, but as he poured himself a fresh whiskey he said, “And did I?” 

“You did. Hot in an old m...older guy way.” 

Jack rolled his eyes but deep down, if were to be honest, he was pleased. It was a good stroke to his ego which was smarting a bit from being practically driven out because -- No, no he wasn’t doing this. 

“You okay? Sorry I said older guy.” 

“It’s okay -- I mean, no it’s not okay, I’m still in my thirties -- I was just thinking.” 

“So it’s true. You writer people get in your own head, huh?” 

“I certainly do,” Jack admitted. He was easier to talk to the more he had to drink. “What about you? What’s your type.” 

“I am the hot type. My job in life is to seduce as many people as people.” Jack raised his eyebrow and Brock laughed. “Nah, I haven’t found my spot in the world. I highly doubt I ever will.” 

Jack should have felt pity but instead a cold shiver zapped up his spine leaving him feeling unsettled. Brock’s eyes locked in with him when that feeling came back. Jack shuddered and Brock frowned. “I hope you’re not coming down with anything. Hey, speaking of, what the hell were you doing?”

“I was going to see how deep it was.” 

“By jumping? You were leaning down it. I was worried I’d go to jail for murdering you or something when you fall in.” 

Jack didn’t remember leaning in. He had been inspecting the bucket and the rope, not the inside of the well. But… Maybe he had and forgot. Whiskey had that effect occasionally. More than once Jack woke up to find his cellphone in the cupboard and on top of the DVR. 

“I don’t think that I’ll die if I fall down a well.” 

“Well you don’t have a Lassie so I think you might.” 

“You get that reference but not Buffalo Bill?” 

“Lassie is a beloved icon in history, Jack.” 

Jack sat back both exasperated and unsettled; he took another drink and Brock looked around the room. “It’s a pretty nice place. I mean, it could look worlds better if they did some renovation. Maybe put on vinyl siding, new three-taps, fresh paint job, totally overhaul of the furniture.”

“I think it’s perfect as is. It sits in a certain period in history, y’know. It’s got it’s own class.” 

Jack raised his brows. “I wouldn’t have expected you to care about history.” 

“I don’t. But when it comes to this place… It’s special.” Brock looked around once more, a smile playing at his lips as if he knew something Jack didn’t. “Hey, how about we have sandwiches?” 

Jack was taken off guard by the sudden topic change but he nodded his. “Uh, yeah, sure.” 

It wasn’t like he could send him away with the onslaught of rain, practically coming down in sheets. Jack made the sandwiches, cold cuts. “You want ham or turkey?” 

“Ham.” 

“You want cheese?” 

“Is that even a question?” 

Jack rolled his eyes. “Mustard or mayo?” 

“Ketchup.” 

“Excuse me?” Jack stepped around the corner. 

The kid grinned at him. “Ketchup.” 

“You disgust me,” Jack said as he obediently smeared it onto the white bread. 

Sandwiches and meat were about the only thing Jack could make. He set Brock’s offensive sandwich down first and he didn’t waste a moment to take a bite. “It’s so good,” he said. “You should try it.” 

“I’ll pass.” Jack took a bite of his own sandwich. “So how do you spend your time -- when you’re not trespassing.” 

“There are no signs,” Brock said. “And this and that. Odd jobs.” 

Jack nodded his head. 

“And you’re an author, clearly.” 

“Clearly.” 

“How’s that?” 

“It’s… It’s something.” 

“Something bad or something good?” 

Jack sighed. “It’s got it’s perks -- I love writing. But… It’s hard to write things that haven’t already been written. Same story, different words, you know? I…” Jack stopped almost naming the series he wrote. He didn’t think Brock would know but he couldn’t take the risk. “I want to be different. To stand out.” 

“Yeah, sure, you wanna be famous.” 

“It’s more than fame. It’s making an impact. To change the game in some way. Push the boundaries.” 

“With sex workers?” 

Jack should have known that he’d take the chance to look through his notes. He wasn’t certain where the fascination came from. “Well, yes. A story untold right?” 

“I think so.” Brock shrugged his shoulders. “I think there should be more gay romance actually.” 

“Really?” Jack didn’t advertise his sexuality but knew that there was a budding among authors to start included more gay, lesbian and transgender characters. He hadn’t thought about including himself in the list. “I’ll think it over.” 

Brock perked up a bit at that. “Awesome.” 

Brock found a deck of cards and played solitaire while Jack refreshed his email for something from Natasha. He tried not to worry that there weren't any. She’d keep him in the loop if things were going sideways. Her lack of correspondence was a good thing. Jack took a drink and reassured himself that it meant everything was going favorably. He took more notes but Brock didn’t seem to notice. He pulled up Pages and got to work making a formal outline. In the corner of his eye he could see Brock sliding the notebook towards himself. Jack let his palm fall on it. Brock smiled sheepishly. 

“I need it for my outline. If you must look through it, you can have it after.” 

“You strike a hard deal but fine.” 

Jack shook his head with a smile. It got late and Jack went to retrieve another bottle of Jameson Irish. At the table Brock yawned and stretched. The rain had slowed to a drizzle. “You should probably head out kid, before you run out of daylight.” 

Brock looked out of the window and nodded his head. “Good idea. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“I’m sorry?” 

Brock was halfway to the door and didn’t slow as he called, “I’ll see you tomorrow!”

He pulled open the door and shut it. The house immediately felt too quiet, lonely almost. Jack didn’t think someone could grow on you within a day but here he was, almost missing Brock Rumlow. Life certainly had its way of surprising Jack. Good and bad alike. 

** ** ** **

A heavy fog rested over the property and the moon shone brightly as Jack stood on the back lattice porch. It was part of the front porch, hugging the house but stopping just short of the kitchen door. He took an idle sip of Jameson and wondered why. The air was heavy, humid, but cold. Very cold, Jack realized so he took another drink to warm himself up. It didn’t work. He tried again. The gusts moaned around him, as though the air itself was alive and suffering. Suffering, Jack thought, taking a sip. It was a strange adjective to place there but it was the only word he could have with such a mournful noise rattling around him. 

His eyes drifted to the well, somehow impervious to fog. It rested around it like wisps of smoke. Jack was taken back to an AC/DC concert he’d attended when he was a teenager. The smoke machines added a dramatic flare to highlight the center stage, the main event. 

Jack shuddered again. He wondered why the fog would do such a thing, why a decrepit well would be afforded such attention from the elements. Why it stood above the rule of mother nature who had placed this fog here intentionally. Did something special reside in it? Something Jack had missed? He descended the stairs and he stepped onto the wet grass. He looked down and realized he didn’t have any shoes on. The grass was wet and the fog parted for him as well, rolling backwards because he too was the star of the show. Jack didn’t know why or what show it was. Confusion muddled his thoughts so he took another drink, hoping to clear his mind with something he knew, something he was sure of. 

It brought him sharply back to focus, taking slow even steps toward his partner. As the distance closed between them the wind’s somber cries faded and the night took an almost eerie silence. It was as if the night itself was holding its breath waiting for their reunion. Then he was there, he looked over into the dark recesses, the glow over the moon shining on them and -- 

A scream, a blood curdling shriek of true terror. The kind of scream only released when the screamer knows it will be their last. It didn’t come from the throat, it came from the soul and the hair on Jack’s arms prickled as he reared back. A hand grabbed the edge of the well, tar black and Jack hit the front, scrabbling backwards. His heart raced as another hand joined them and -- 

Jack bolted upright knocking Middlemarch to the floor. His heart was pounding and his hands shook as he reached for his scotch. It was still a bit cold, the stones trusty as usual. He drained it and then sat back taking a few deep breaths. That dream -- that nightmare -- had caught him off guard. Never a horror fan, he didn’t know where it had come from and why it had struck here of all places. Perhaps it was the isolation of it, of being so far away from society that had his mind playing tricks on him. He got up to get a refill and by the time his glass was drained the memories of what the dream had been about had dissipated like smoke. 

** ** ** **

Jack didn’t wake up to Brock in his bed. He woke up to the smell of burnt bacon. 

With a groan he rolled out of bed and found Brock fanning smoke out of the window. Jack grabbed the pan off the burner that was still on and nudged Brock aside as he opened the other window to form a current of air. Before long the smoke had dissipated and Brock grinned. “Morning!” 

“You’re lucky the fire detector didn’t go off,” Jack said in response.

“Oh these things?” Brock hopped up to pull off the smoke detector which wasn’t real. “I can’t believe you thought those things were real.” 

“I didn’t exactly examine them. I trusted that people in this state followed fire code.” 

“Nah, most people have woodstoves and the smoke’ll set them off. Easier to just put ‘em as decoration.” 

“Fucksake.” 

“I hope you like your bacon well done.” 

“I don’t.” 

“Good, more for me.” 

Jack was running out of groceries faster than expected, feeding two people and all. He’d have to leave sometime during the week to restock -- he hadn’t considered the possibility some kid would invite himself in for meals. “You know, it’s a courtesy to at least knock.” 

“The door was unlocked, same as yesterday. It’s totally an invitation.” 

“It totally isn’t.” 

“We’ll have to disagree to agree.” 

“It’s agree to disagree.” 

“I’ve heard it both ways.” 

“No you haven’t.” 

“Do you want scrambled eggs or not? I even melted cheese on them.” 

Of course Jack wanted cheesy scrambled eggs -- who wouldn’t -- but he was still a bit distracted by Brock inviting himself in. No normal person would barge into a stranger's life the way he did. Jack began to suspect he didn’t have food at home and was trying to avoid something by being around him. So Jack couldn’t find it in his heart to ask him to leave and to lock the door to keep him out. He was only human after all and that came with a certain amount of sympathy. 

“Only if you make toast.” 

Brock grinned. “Deal.” 

Breakfast was quiet. Jack tried to probe gently in his life but Brock dismissed it all with, “My stuff is boring.” followed by asking Jack increasingly personal questions. Jack did the dishes since Brock had cooked (and burnt) breakfast. Brock sat up on the counter and reminded him again of the hiking trail and the pond. “I don’t know how to fish.” 

Brock stared at him like he was insane. “Are you kidding me? We’re going fishing. Take a sick day and fish.” 

“Why would anyone take a sick day to fish?” 

“It’s a Vermont thing -- that and hunting. Buck season? Oof, half the workforce is gone.” 

“Sounds irresponsible.” 

Brock clucked his tongue in disappointment. “Don’t insult culture you don’t understand.” 

“I don’t know if that counts as culture.” 

“Culture is defined at ‘Habits that characterize a particular society’,” Brock said with a proud inflection. “Culture. Educate yourself, swine.” 

“Careful.” 

“Let me have my moment, Jack. I don’t ask for much.”

“Just my time, my food, and my energy.” 

“Yeah,” Brock perked up. “Exactly. C’mon there’s decent poles in the shed.” 

“Of course you’ve been through the shed,” Jack sighed. 

“Why wouldn’t I have?” Brock hopped down from the counter and Jack dried his hands. “Come on.” 

Jack set the towel down the counter and followed him out. He went out the kitchen door, bypassing the steps, hopping down. The dew slickened grass caught him by surprise and he ended up on his ass. Jack couldn’t help but snicker and Brock glared at him with red cheeks. “Shut up,” he snapped. 

Jack held up his hands in defeat. He trailed along behind Brock. His eyes wandered to the well and a shiver wracked his body, a cold gust went by his ear that felt eerily like his hand. He turned on instinct, looking for someone who obviously wasn’t there. He told himself that he was keeping himself too cooped up and it was starting to take effect. Maybe fishing was a good idea after all, although… 

“I don’t have a fishing license.” 

“Neither does half of Vermont.” 

“Comforting.” 

“I’m just being real with you. Here, hold the tackle box. I put some worms in it.” 

“How’d you know we’d need this?” 

Brock grinned. “Because I was gonna bring you whether you like it not.” 

“I see.” 

Brock led him to the pond, rods resting on his shoulder like something out of Huckleberry Finn. He cut between the trees and stepped over fallen, rotted logs with the ease of someone who’d traversed the area a hundred times. Clearly he spent a long time around the area. It was a bit peculiar to Jack how a kid so outspoken would choose to spend his time out here, with Jack. Surely he had lots of friends in town, or at least in other towns. Someone like Brock attracted attention, he was likeable and agreeable. All things that made a good friend. 

The woods opened up to a small clearing where a natural pond sat, one side covered in a cluster of reeds. A few ducks took off as they approached. Brock taught him how to bait a hook (stab the worm on the hook in a way that would make the fish bite down), cast (hold the rod tilted behind him and throw it forward pressing a button) and reel (spin the knob toward him). All in all it was pretty simple and from there all they did was sit and wait. 

“So what do you like so much about this place?” 

“What’s not to like?” Brock replied. “It’s nice here, isn’t it? Quiet.” 

“It is quiet.” Jack said. “I think it’ll take some time to adjust to the city noise again when I leave here.” 

“That’s not for a bit, right?” 

“Not for a bit,” he agreed. 

Another cold breeze brushed against his neck. “I keep getting these cold chills,” Jack complained. 

“Oh, yeah. You get used to it.” 

Jack didn’t think he would. He didn’t get time to dwell on the increasingly common occurrence because he got a bite. Brock threw down his rod and helped him reel it in. Jack didn’t expect to find it so exhilarating but it was. His heartbeat picked up and he was smiling. They pulled in the fish which Brock identified as a panfish. Brock caught a yellow perch and Jack and Brock managed to drag in a sizable largemouth bass. 

“Dinner for tonight,” Brock said proudly. 

“I have no idea how to prepare a fish.” 

“Well then you’re lucky to have me, aren’t you.” 

Jack smiled. “I guess I am.” 

It wasn’t a simple process and it was far from a clean one. Brock was descaling it over the bin but the scales were flying in every which way. Brock took over the actual filleting and cooking which gave Jack time to clean up, pouring himself whiskey and pondering his notes for a few minutes before Brock brought out plates. Jack had never eaten food he caught but there was something so appealing about it. Maybe it was base desires, something that tickled his lizard brain. It was good, the fish sweet and flaky. 

“Good right?” Brock said with a grin.

“It is. You should be a chef.” 

Brock’s smile faltered a moment before doubling. “Nah, too much work. Besides, chefs are angry. “

“I suppose they are. You don’t get angry?” 

“Sometimes. It takes a lot to tick me off.” Brock nodded at his plate. “The skin is edible and good for you.” 

Jack turned the skin over with a fork. “I appreciate the advice but I’m going to pass.” 

“It’s really good though. Just try a little,” Brock said, like a mother trying to urge her children to try a spoonful of food they didn’t want to sample. 

With a heavy sigh he obediently cut off a piece. It was, as Brock said, really good. But he wasn’t willing to admit defeat so he said, “I guess it’s alright.” 

Brock grinned. “You love it.” 

“Hush.” 

They did the dishes together, talking like old friends. It’d only been two days; he wasn’t sure how it happened but, honestly, he was glad that it did.

** ** ** **

Jack’s eyes shot open at the activity above him. Heavy footsteps, loud angry voices seeping through the ceiling. He tried to get up, tried to see who had invaded this house but he couldn’t move. He was paralyzed there, laying in bed staring up. Their voices were muffled through the floorboards and he thought they were male but occasionally the soprano of a woman cut it sounding just as hysteric as Jack currently felt. He tried to move, tried to make a noise but it was as if he’d been bound in place, every muscle no longer connected to this brain. He couldn’t even turn his eyes to see if he truly was. All he could do was lay there and listen. 

There was a scuffle, frantic steps, a shout and a scream. Then a bang. It was almost deafening, his eyes ringing. The hysterics turned to shrieks. Hair-raising screams and a loud male voice. It was travelling along with the sound of something heavy dragging. A murder, someone had been murdered and now they were coming to kill him too… 

Jack woke with a start. He sat upright and took the steps two at a time. Nothing. No traces of a single person, no blood -- just Jack standing there in a sweat dampened tee looking around wildly. A dream. It had just been a dream from him reading too many crime novels. Maybe it was his conscience weighing on him from… No. No, he wasn’t thinking about that. It was quiet was all, his mind had a way of inventing things, of making something from nothing. That was it. He walked down the stairs in the half light from the hallway below. He steadied himself with a few sips of his drink and when he fell asleep, fitfully. 

** ** ** **

It became a habit, Brock arriving before he woke up and preparing some kind of breakfast. Sometimes it was pancakes and once even waffles (“Nifty little things, aren’t they?”). Some days they walked the trails and talked a lot about nothing. Brock seemed to enjoy being told about the city and Jack liked to tell him. The way his face lit up when he learned about fancy tea stores made it worth it. Brock wasn’t an intruder, it was almost like he lived there. Well, he might as well have been seeing as he spent all his time there. Jack wasn’t even sure why but he liked the company. 

Brock wasn’t a cat but he still had that effect. 

When Brock was near him however, the cold chills came. It was peculiar and he didn’t understand. It was a brush, his name said so softly it could have easily been a breeze. But breezes didn’t happen indoors and not so frequently. 

Tonight was bad enough he sat in the living room with the light on, sipping whiskey, wishing Brock was there. He wasn’t sure what he was afraid of and if what he was feeling was actually fear. But whatever it was, he wanted it to end. So when he heard the sound of a knob turning down the hall he stood up in time to see the closet door open and… Brock walked out of it, caught sight of Jack and stopped dead. 

“I can explain.” 

“You’ve been living here?” Jack was so shocked he couldn’t even be upset. 

“No, I mean… Yes?” 

“Yes or no Brock.” 

“Both,” Brock said, eyes pleading. 

Jack didn’t know what to think anymore. He felt betrayed, lied to. “I’m leaving.” 

“Jack, no, please don’t. We can go fishing again. Go on the trails -- ”

“You are the last person I want to talk to, Brock.” Jack stood up. “I’m taking a drive.” 

“Jack, please.” His eyes were wide and wet and it almost pained Jack to turn away. 

It was unsettling in a way, knowing that someone had lurked in his space. He would have been understanding, he wouldn’t have been upset if Brock had just told him. But he hadn’t and that was a violation of the tentative trust constructed between them. He walked around the house to the driveway and his car was gone. It didn’t make sense. He hadn’t been near it since his wifi hunt and the keys were in his laptop bag. Had Brock stolen them?

“Jack, please. Come inside and I’ll explain it.” 

“What did you do with my car?” 

“Nothing. Jack -- ”

“No, no. I’m not going inside. Tell me what the fuck you did.” 

“I didn’t do anything with your car, Jack. Just come inside and -- ”

“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me where you put my goddamn car.” Jack’s heart was racing and he was panicking, something nagging at him that he couldn’t his finger on. Something he was afraid to think too hard on because...because… “Where is my fucking car, Brock? What did you do? What did you fucking do?”

Was Jack yelling at Brock or himself? He could feel the door trapping the thing he couldn’t dare entertain as possible bowing, piling up against it, trying to break free. Trying to tell Jack that he --

Brock’s hand clenched. “I didn’t do anything. You’re dead, Jack. And...and so am I. I’ve been dead for a long time actually.” 

The jarring statement took him off guard. Him? Dead? No, no that was insanity. He couldn’t be dead. He just couldn’t be. 

Jack couldn’t wrap his head around it. He was dead? He’d know if he was dead. He’d be in Heaven or possibly even Hell. But not here, not in some rural house in nowhere. 

“You’re fucking crazy.” 

“No, Jack listen -- ”

“No! I’m not going to so lunatic in the middle of fucking nowhere trying to tell me I’m dead!”

“I’m not a lunatic,” Brock snapped. 

“Oh yes you are. Standing there telling me I’m dead? When I’m standing in front of you. You’re fucking crazy.”

“Go on, then.” Brock said, sounding angry. “Go ahead and walk down the driveway.” 

Jack did so. No, he didn’t walk, he ran. It was to be insanity, because Jack… He wasn’t dead. He’d know. People didn’t die and forget. Did they? It was a long driveway and he paused panting for breath. 

“I’m sorry.” Brock said. “I didn’t want to break it to you like that.” 

Jack nearly toppled over in fear as Brock appeared next to him. “I just… I got excited, I guess. To not be alone.” 

“What are you?” Jack demanded, looking up in horror. 

Brock gave a kicked puppy look. “I think I’m a ghost. Or something like it. I died in 1904. It’s been a long time.” Jack stared wide eyed at him and Brock continued, “the person who rents out this house knows. She tried to smudge me a few times but it doesn’t work, apparently. This house is purgatory, I think. Or where you die is. I’ve learned a lot through watching TV. I think she’s decided to leave me be.” 

Jack couldn’t absorb any of that. He looked at his hands in horror, fearing they would fade. 

“You’ll keep your shape.” Brock said. “I’ll show you how Jump. That’s what I call it anyway. Jumping from one place to another.” 

“How did I die?” Jack asked, voice raspy with tears. 

“You got into a car accident. You and the truck driver died. You… You were drunk.” 

“Oh God.” 

Suddenly Jack could see it clearly. Him hitting the brakes, the car skittering into the truck, both going way too fast and then rolling down the embankment, the water filling up the cab of his car… 

“Oh God.” 

“I think you get stuck here if you do something wrong before you die. Or if you did in the past. Stuck in limbo forever,” Brock said glumly. “But you’re here now.” 

Jack put his hands over his face and he cried. He hadn’t cried in years and here he was wailing like a child who had been told no. He was dead. Not only was he dead but he had killed someone -- another someone -- and he was stuck here. Jack had come here to escape the media surrounding the accident that left an old man who was in the ICU and not likely to make it. And he had done it again. He deserved to be here, to be trapped. But that didn’t make it any easier to cope with. He felt a hand on his shoulder. It felt warm. 

“What’s the deal with the well?” Jack finally croaked. 

“My parents are down there,” Brock admitted. “I… It’s a long story. But the papers called me a lunatic so I was… It’s not a word I like, as I’m sure you understand.” 

When Jack didn’t respond Brock sat down opposite of him, taking his hands between his. “It doesn’t matter what we did before,” Brock said. “All that matters is now.” 

Jack took his hands back to wipe his eyes. He felt foolish suddenly, breaking down like this. But there was a nagging ache in his gut about the life lost -- maybe even two -- that he didn’t know how to make due with. “I’m a murderer.” 

“So what? Everyone’s done things they’re not proud of but you’re not like that -- we’re not like that.” 

Jack was struck by the parents in the well all over again. Suddenly all those dreams made sense. Like the house had been trying to tell him along who Brock truly was. “You...you killed them.” 

“I killed my father. He’s a nasty piece of work, always beating on my mother and me. And she… She found out and I…” Brock drew a deep breath. “I pushed her in too. And then I went back in the house, took the Mauser, and pulled the trigger. All of a sudden I’m standing beside the well. I thought that… I thought that I had imagined it all but then I saw my body.” 

“Where’s my body?” Jack interrupted. He was trying to unpack the fact Brock had murdered his parents but he had other pressing concerns. 

“Probably gone by now. They pulled the car out of the river. Some woman was sobbing.”

“Did she have red hair?” 

“Yeah.” 

Jack’s stomach knotted even worse than it already was. “I’m so sorry Natasha,” he whispered. 

“Apologies are pretty useless,” Brock informed him. “I apologized for half a century and it didn’t make a difference.” 

“Who did I hear saying my name?” 

“It’s from the Other Side. I can show you, if you want. But you look like you’ve been through hell already. I don’t know if it’ll be too much.” 

“Show me.” Jack demanded. 

Brock nodded his head and suddenly they were standing in the middle of the dining room. Natasha was there running her fingers over his laptop, picking up his pen and holding it close. Her mascara was running and Jack wanted to hold her and say sorry. The courts should have taken his license. Then they were back in the house, empty house, and Jack was confused and disoriented and million other things he didn’t think there were words for. Brock was quiet, letting him process -- or try to process -- all this new, terrifying information. 

“I had dreams about what you did,” Jack whispered. “And about the well.” 

“Sounds like you jumping layers. I couldn’t really figure it out at first but you’ll get used to it.” 

Jack was silent and Brock took the hint.

“I’ll give you some space,” Brock said. 

Jack appreciated it. He sat on the couch, mulling through all his thoughts. He was trying to make tops of things, to get a grasp somehow of his situation. He was dead. 

He was dead and he hadn’t known.

He was   
. 

Jack dropped his face into his hands and began to cry. He cried for hours, Brock polite enough to not interrupt or offer reassurance. He just gave Jack the time to grieve for himself. He gave him three days actually and within that time Jack didn’t feel hungry once. In fact, after that night, he’d never felt hungry. Cooking and eating were normal tasks, things he never thought twice about. Now… Now what? He’d never eat again? 

He went outside, giving the well a wide berth -- if the ghosts of Brock’s parents lived down there he wanted absolutely nothing to do with them. He felt the trees, all real. This wasn’t what Jack imagined the afterlife to be. He should have been in hell right? Burning up with other scum like himself. But maybe it wasn’t so black and white. Maybe it was. But maybes didn’t really matter much anymore did they? 

He was dead. Pushing up daisies. Six feet under. 

Dead. 

Jack suddenly wasn’t feeling like he had a hold on it. 

“It takes some getting used to.” 

Jack jumped a mile and spun around to glare at Brock. “Don’t do that.” 

“Sorry. I guess I got… I put a lot on you back there. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m dead so you can assume that I am not okay.” 

Brock cringed. “Okay, fair. But I can tell you from experience that it’s easier to let it go. It sounds stupid but just say, hey, I’m dead and focus on having fun.” 

“Fun.” 

“Sure! Cards, writing, swimming in the summer, fishing, hunting -- you name it.” 

“What about physical things?” 

Brock smirked. “Physical things are also acceptable.” 

** ** ** **

Brock fell back against the bed with a sigh of contentment. “You know it’s been almost seventy years since I did that?” 

Still high off his orgasm (which, thankfully, even the dead could have) he rolled over to ask, “Who was your last?” 

“A widower. He came here for a month to escape her memory. He was only twenty four, can you believe it?” Brock looked at him with a smile. “But, despite your age, you outshone him.” 

Jack managed a laugh. “At least now you can stop calling me old. It’s not like I’ll be aging any time.” 

“No. It’s good and bad. It was bad before… Well, I’m not going to say I’m happy you’re dead.” Brock said. “It’s just good to know you won’t be alone forever. Before you I was sure that I would be. That I’d be stuck here waiting for the Airbnb guests to come over so I could bother them.” 

“Well you do have a special sort of charm to you,” Jack admitted. “It’s hard to dislike you.” 

“Well thank you,” Brock said. “And you’re charming when you want to be. I mean, minus the sex without properly courting me.” 

“Courting you?” 

“Well if you tried you would probably be stoned to death or something. You’d think I would remember things but I don’t. Not really at least. It’s easy to forget.”

Jack wasn’t certain that he would ever forget but what did he know? It was his first time dying. “So… It’s your parents in the well?” 

“Not my mom, she got to go wherever the goodie-two shoes end up.” Brock seemed very bothered by that. “She never raised a finger in my favor. Not when he beat me half near dead. I didn’t want to kill her but in the end she was still standing on his side. I didn’t have a choice. My father is down there but he’s not like us. I don’t think you can be unless you’ve killed someone. It’s the only reason I can think of. So unless we decide to sacrifice some sap to the well, he’s going to stay that way. And I vote to leave him there.” 

“That’s a whole lot of   
talk,” Jack said. 

Brock rolled over to grin. “That’s the best part, Jack. It’s us forever. We don’t have to be alone. We can harass the next people who come here. Or, y’know, stay here.” 

“What’s here?” 

“It’s empty. Just us, no one else.” Brock explained. “Besides it’s better than sitting stuck in your head, picking through every single regret in life. Trust me, I’ve done it. At one point I almost convinced myself that I felt bad about killing my father. Could you believe that?” 

It sounded like a complicated situation and Jack wasn’t about to lend his two cents when he had his own past that he’d have to come to terms with eventually. Clearly the guilt didn’t last forever. 

And, on the plus side, he wasn’t alone. 

“I think we’ll figure it out,” Jack said with a shaky inhale. 

He was starting to get a handle on it and thinking ‘I’m dead’ didn’t make him want to break down and plead with god, or whoever was up there, to give him another chance. Maybe this was a mercy, make it was a second chance for him to live his life over again. 

And maybe he’d gotten lucky that he was stuck with Brock, someone who could understand and rationalize all his dark thoughts and his history. They might have been fated together, two broken souls stuck in limbo for eternity. He wouldn’t be lost forever, he wouldn’t be lost at all. Brock was here. As long as he was beside him there wasn’t anything that they couldn’t handle. 

Brock took his hand. “I think so too.”


End file.
